


An Adventure in Lying

by action_cat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blogging, British Army, Cute, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Group Therapy, H.E.R.B, Janice Rightly - Freeform, Julia Grint - Freeform, M/M, Martin Beauregard - Freeform, Natasha Hemmings - Freeform, Oliver Beauregard - Freeform, Secrets, Shooting, Trapped, gunman is so sexist, gunman/gunwoman, limited talking, mehhhh, office buildings, policemen - Freeform, texts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:59:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/action_cat/pseuds/action_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My name is Sherlock Holmes. And it is my business to know other people don't know.<br/>-Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle</p><p>On a seemingly normal case for Lestrade, Sherlock is stuck in an office building with five other seemingly normal people. He's been shot, but everything seems fine. To pass the time, the people he is trapped with converse about their home life and their  families. But something is revealed, and one of the people he just explained his life to is the person who shot him.</p><p>And they have no intention of letting him live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Adventure in Lying

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, forgot to mention that John broke his leg. Won't go into details, but if anyone is interested in writing something about that, bombs away! Also, John and Sherlock have been married for a few months. Maybe a year. A bit of fluff ensures.Enjoy.

"Don't wait up John, this case might talk a few hours." Sherlock swung his coat around like a cape, and struggled an arm through it. John smirked.

"I told you to fix that stitch, but you won't listen. And if it weren't for this computer, I'd be coming with you." John tapped his computer annoyingly, craning his neck to look at Sherlock from his position from his armchair. Sherlock leaned over his shoulder and watched his computer screen on his lap. 

"Still working on the blog then? If you need anything, call me. I'll be here as soon as I can." Sherlock brushed his lips against Johns', and snickered. John blushed. "Good-bye, John."

" Oi! Don't shoot anyone if you can avoid it." John called at Sherlock's retreating figure. Sherlock raised his hand, acknowledging John's words. He called good-bye to Mrs. Hudson, and then, the door slammed behind him, the wind whistling in his wake.

 

 

"Oh god, Sherlock, it's good you're here." Lestrade wiped his brow with his hand, and looked worriedly at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes, disgusted that Lestrade put him on a boring case, standoff with a hidden gunman. But more so that he took him away from John, where he could be having a nice night of wine and bad television. Lestrade handed him a vest, apparently bulletproof, while some secretary rattled off instructions to him. Sherlock waved her away impatiently, and walked out of the door before Lestrade had started talking.

"See you in a bit." Sherlock called, his coat swishing. The secretary sighed a bit, and blew her soft brown hair out of her face.

"Is he always like this?" She asked Lestrade, her glasses falling down her nose to reveal light blue eyes. Lestrade smiled at her grimly, while taking a sip of coffee. It was just before three thirty, pm, and Sherlock Holmes was going to talk to a gunman.

"Every single damn day."

 

Sherlock strode across the the glass doors, smiling mockingly at the officers that circled, say fifty feet behind him, protected by plastic shields. Of course, he himself had no protection save the vest, but he wasn't worried. He'd faced worse. Mycroft's morning breathe, for instance when they lived together as children. The clouds were gray, and the wind blew ever stronger as he walked towards the door. He thrust on of his hands in his pocket, and knocked thrice on the glass door. It echoed loudly, birds scattering from the rooftops and from trees. The officers looked shiftily at Sherlock, as he stood there, humming quietly to himself. If you were close enough, it sounded like something classical, but the bit of humanity he showed was lost by the brushing of leaves, as everyone waited in tension. The time was twelve thirty-six, and a single shot rang out.

Sherlock ricocheted to the right, on one knee, gasping, The shot hit his right arm, and there was blood. He blinked rather fast, breathing heavily. Lestrade gave a shout, and the officers surged forward to grab him. But they didn't get there soon enough, because the door opened and Sherlock Holmes was pulled inside.

Sherlock groaned, he was being dragged by his coat. He briefly kicked his legs, but then someone gabbed those too. Voices were ringing, and faces were blurry. There was a girl, well, almost a woman by the look of her, rushing about in a lab coat that read _Saint Mary's Hospital_. She grimaced at the sight of him, and pulled off his coat carefully. Sherlock realized they had set him on a table. He groaned again, his arm was bleeding profusely. The girl shushed him, while a man in a  woody-brown turtle neck with a beard stood at his head, a worried expression on his face.

"Please, be still, this might hurt a bit." He tapped Sherlock's cheekbones gently, leaving the light smell of mint and firewood. Sherlocks' head felt like it was spinning, and he puked over the side of the table. The nurse girl cut away his button-up shirt, and wrapped the wound tightly. The turtle-neck man handed her gauze, and said an instruction to her. She shook her head, gesturing to something out of Sherlock's vision. The man argued, but the girl had said the command stronger, and turned back to Sherlock. She bit her lip, and checked for an exit wound. There was one, but the bullet could not be found. The girl breathed deeply, and the man rushed back with a syringe filled with blue liquid. He looked at Sherlock, like he was saying _I'm sorry_ and injected the blue liquid into Sherlock's vein. Sherlock gasped deeply, and suddenly everything was clear as day. His mind, every color, everything. There were six birds on the third tree outside the tinted window, one that had been diseased by Spanish Moss, but was fighting it by the look of the branches. He sat up.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, the girl pinned the gauze and bandage on Sherlock's arm. She looked up at Sherlock, and smiled weakly.

"My name is Natasha, I'm a nurse at-"

"Saint Mary's Hospital, yes, I read your label on your shirt. Natasha, what did he inject me with?" Sherlock gestured with his neck at the turtleneck man, who brought Sherlock a loose-fitting shirt. Sherlock pulled it over, very stiff around his arm. The man helped, but Natasha sighed. Her sandy hair gleamed.

"I'm sorry about that. Martin injected you with a type of pain-killer we have developed at my hospital, it numbs the nerves connected to the damaged area quite efficiently, while leaving the mind as clear as day. However, it's still a prototype." Natasha helped Sherlock stand, and together with Martin's help they walked towards the elevator. Martin grabbed a briefcase.

"Did you pull me inside?" Sherlock's breathe was labored, but no pain was evident.

"Yes. The man who is holding the building hostage would have shot more people had we not. I'm sorry we were so rough, but there are more of us upstairs. We should've brought more people. I'm sorry, what's your name?" Natasha was English, despite her strong features. Sherlock smiled briefly.

" I'm Sherlock Holmes, I was sent over to negotiate with the gunman." They had reached the elevator by now, and were zooming up to the fifth or sixth floor. Martin opened his mouth.

" Well, Mr. Holmes, or can I call you Sherlock? I like that much better. I'm Martin Buearegard, and this is Miss Natasha Hemmings. She works at the hospital that is associated with Cleveary's and Associates, the office building we're in now." Martin shuffled through his pockets, leaving Natasha to support Sherlock by herself. But she carried on, surprisingly strong, for a person so small. They reached the sixth floor, and the elevator doors opened, bringing in light and people.

Martin shouted,"Leave a path! We need some space!." The people spread about, only about two or three others in the room. They set Sherlock down on a armchair in a circle of other armchairs. There were two other women, and a young boy appearing to be about fourteen or fifteen. He had light brown hair, and closely resembled Martin. Martin ruffled his hair affectionately, then put the briefcase underneath the chair he was sitting in. One of the woman, appearing to be about Natasha's age came forward. She held out her left hand, with her right tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear.

"Hello Mr. Holmes, I'm Janice Rightly." Sherlock shook her hand, glimpsing up at her.  _Scuffed shoes-walks around a lot, one, no two, oh three cats, one of which had an eating disorder. Dressed hurriedly for work, clothes in patched condition but overly nice. Presentable, hands in pockets or behind back, or clasped in front reverently. College student? Red stain on her sleeve, splotched._ Sherlock smiled briefly. Janice smiled in return and walked over to a table, where a coffee machine was already in motion. The other woman, Martins' son,  Natasha, and Martin sat down next to Sherlock. All the armchairs were the same; high-backed, with maroon leather. The boy kept sliding off, he was small for his age. Martin cleared his throat.

"Sherlock, why did you come to those doors?" All eyes were on him, Natasha kept quiet from over in the corner. Plink, plink, plink, went the boy's fingers on a coffee table next to him, glass, probably very breakable judging on it's Victorian style brass framing. Sherlock took a breathe, and focused.

"The detective inspector Lestrade sent me over as a negotiator to get you lot out of here. It was supposed to be a case, but now I'm here.

"Fat lot of luck that'll do us." The other woman spoke for the first time. She had light brown hair, graying at the roots, pulled back in bun. She was about forty, maybe late thirties, and could stand to loose a few pounds.  _Left handed, housewife. Happily married for ten years, three children, Two older siblings, nervous, redid her hair three times today._  Sherlock leaned forward, his arm hanging by his side.

"Tell me." The woman looked at Natasha nervously, and continued.

"We don't know who the gunman is, he's been on the level above us the whole time. He sends us faxes, and usually he hints that there is a bomb. We've been here for three hours, and there's no cell signal anywhere. My children, my husband, I'll never-" The woman broke down in tears, thankfully at that moment Janice came back with tea. She handed a cup to the woman, who stuttered out a reply. Natasha and Martin grimaced at each other, the boy squeezing his eyes shut and tightening his mouth. 

"And you are Mrs.-?" Sherlock asked, leaning back into a more comfortable position. Janice sat down on his right, and she reached over to place a cup by his left hand. The woman stopped sobbing, just sniffs coming.

"My name is Julie Grint, I'm a librarian at King's College. Married to Stanley Grint, two sons, Elliott and Connor, and a daughter, Elsie. Is there anything else? How many pounds I make? My bank account information? My-" 

"No, but maybe later if that becomes relevant." He paused for a second.  "Is there anything we can do about this?"

Natasha shook her head. "No, Oliver tried to get a message out to the police, but he got shot in his hand." Sherlock just noticed, the boy, Oliver, had one of his hands in his sweater. He took it out and showed it to Sherlock. Expertly bandaged. 

"You're very good at bandaging." She blushed.

"I am a nurse. Honestly, when you got shot, it was the most interesting thing to happen to us in three hours. Sorry, but it's good that you're here. More stories, y'know?"

"Yeah, get comfortable, because it's going to rain in about five minutes, and the heating still isn't working." Janice looked out the window, craning her neck. She looked over at Sherlock. "What's your story? Come on, don't be shy."

Sherlock looked around.  _Do I honestly share with random strangers? I mean, I've only told John everything, but I suppose I could just brim over the surface._ "I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I invented the job." Oliver raised his hand, the un-bandadged one. 

"What's a consulting detective?" Martin nodded enthusiastically. 

"It means that when the police are out of their league, which is almost always, they come to me. I've been doing this for a while, with my partner John." They all nodded, following his every word, even Julia. 

"What else is there to tell? I have brothers, a mother and father, and grew up watching  _Annie_ , the American version. My landlady, Mrs. Hudson, is basically my mother, and, well, I'm not good at being social. Many people think I'm a freak and a psychopath. That's mine, tell me yours." Of course, Sherlock knew them already but wanted to seem normal for once. Janice spoke first.

"My name is Janice Eleanor Rightly, I'm from Glasgow, Scotland. I have three cats, and my sister lives with me. I go to King's College, and I major in Immunology, Inflection, and Inflammatory Disease as well as French, German, and addictions. I'm eighteen, I have a boyfriend, and I can shoot pretty well. Came from an entire family of gingers, so don't judge. And I don't have that much of an accent because when you stay with Londoners for a few years you loose a bit. Questions?" Everyone shook their head. Julia started.

"Well, since I'm next in line I suppose I'll go. My name is Julia Margaret Grint, I have three children, Elliot, Connor, and Elsie. Order of oldest to youngest. My husband is a professor at King's College, he teaches about Neuroscience. I'm thirty-nine, and I'm a wildlife activist. I support Emma Watson, she's done so much good for the women of today. We have two ferrets. Anything else? Oh, I make a lovely Blackwell Pudding." Everyone nodded a bit, and Sherlock was reminded vaguely about rehab.Natasha opened her mouth.

"My name is Natasha Stella Hemmings, I have three brothers and two older sisters, three nieces, one nephew, and both of my grandparents are alive. I used to live in Hawes, Yorkshire, and I have a goldfish named Jimbo. I have a boyfriend, this nice bloke named Frank. I've been working at St. Mary's for three years. I came here to talk to a friend of mine about the pain-killers Martin injected Sherlock with, project H.E.R.B. One of my sisters is about to get married, so I've got to go to a wedding in a few months. Anything else? I must say, this isn't that nice of everyone revealing much about them." It started to rain outside, drops splattering against the windows. _Natasha has something she's hiding, she's very good at avoiding subjects._ Everyone looked at Martin, who started, looked at Oliver, and spoke haltingly.

"So I'm Martin Henry Beauregard, and this is my son Oliver. We live in Chelmsford, and I came here to make arrangements with a doctor about my wife's medication. She has great cancer, and we just want to get the best care as possible. Oliver here is fourteen, we're rather proud of him, he just made it into the Young Adults' Orchestra and into the Advanced Chess club." Martin ruffled Oliver's hair affectionately. Oliver blushed a bit, and patted his dad's hand away. Martin chuckled. " I'm an environmental researcher, and my wife is an artist. You might know here, Rose Beauregard? No? Well, she's brilliant, simply brilliant. Major in mathematics and chemistry. Anyway, I'm forty-nine, and my birthday is next week, y'know, if I make it that far." 

Julia looked outside. "Oh, it's raining quite hard, isn't it? The police are still there, poor blokes. I'd hate to be outside in that weather."

"Same. Can everyone check their mobiles again to see if anyone has service?" Janice asked anxiously. Everyone took out their mobiles, complaining quietly about the poor service. Sherlock didn't have any. Shit. Everyone's hopes were down, until Oliver's quiet voice broke out.

"It's okay, I've got some!" He cried, raising his phone in the air with his un-bandadged hand. Sherlock surged forward.

"Can I see that, to send a text?" Oliver nodded, and handed Sherlock his phone. It was a flip, with a keyboard, orange case, nice. The screensaver was a picture of this young woman, with short brown hair smiling happily at the camera with her arm around Oliver. They were both laughing. Sherlock smirked, Oliver blushing a deep red. Sherlock flipped it open, and typed in John's number. Everyone looked over by him, except Martin and Oliver, who were directly across from him in the circle of armchairs. Sherlock started to type.

_I'm not dead yet. SH_

It took a few seconds for a reply, everyone around him being anxious.

_What the fuck, Sherlock! Lestrade phoned and said you got shot, again, and I'm now I'm outside the building. God, why couldn't you text before? And who's phone is this? JW._

Sherlock smirked, and regained typing.

"Who's JW?" Natasha asked.

"My husband." Sherlock replied, his eyes on the screen. "Got a problem with that?"

"Not at all." 

"Good."

_We got caught up in introductions. Oliver Beauregard let me borrow his once we realized he had a signal. SH_

_I'm relieved you didn't steal someones. Is the wound serious? JW_

_Clipped my shoulder. Natasha gave me some painkillers. SH_

_Natasha….Hemmings? JW_

_Yes. Why, is she an acquaintance of yours? SH_

_No, she's on the list that Lestrade gave me. Did she inject you with the H.E.R.B. drug? JW_

_Yes. SH_

_Shit. Can you reach the window? JW_

Sherlock stood up, and walked unsteadily to the window. Janice cried out, and rushed over to help him. He waved her off, and opened the window, Raindrops splashing his curly hair. He waved to John, who was standing on the sidewalk across the street looking up at the office building. Sherlock looked down, raindrops smearing the screen of the mobile.

_Apparently. SH_

_Sherlock, Natasha is the shooter. You have to get out of there, get the other people and run downstairs. We have a_ _rescue team coming, just keep her occupied. I'll be there soon, don't worry. JW_

_Goodbye John. SH_

_I love you, be careful. JW_

_Ditto. SH_

Sherlock shut the flip phone, and walked over to Oliver, handing it back. He accepted it gratefully, while Sherlock turned to Natasha. "Why did you shoot me?"

Janice gasped, Martin turned white, and put and arm over Oliver while Julia almost fainted. She staggered away from Natasha, and leaned against a wall, while Janice darted over to Sherlock. He swayed uncertainly, then leaned against the wall. His heart was pounding unusually fast, his skin turning clammy. Natasha smiled.

"In the criminal world, Mr. Holmes, you are very well known. One does take precaution when dealing with you." She held up the syringe used to inject Sherlock, tauntingly. She looked over at Martin "I'm sorry, but it was necessary to convince you it was a painkiller. Wait a second, no, I'm not sorry."  Natasha grinned. She didn't seem that friendly, but insane. Her hair was unraveling from her braid, and her eyes were filled with madness. She took a step towards Sherlock and pulled out a pistol. The pain in Sherlock's arm was back, but it was more vivid than ever. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Sweat beads formed on his forehead, and his face became even more clammy.

"Why did you try to help me after you shot me?" Sherlock grunted, in between breaths. Natasha shrugged quirkily. 

"It is fun to play the player. Mr. Holmes, you should never have tried to come." Natasha squatted down next to Sherlock, her lab coat showing stains. "It wasn't only what Martin accidentally injected you with that was laced, but the bullet too. I only reforced it, so my dear Sherlock, now is a good time to say your goodbyes to your dear husband." She put the barrel of the gun next to Sherlock's throat, but he didn't show signs of fear. Janice ran over to Oliver, who almost threw her the phone. She handed it to Sherlock. Natasha smiled deadly when he didn't type in his number. She took the safety off. " Soon, dearie. You don't have all day."

 Without looking, Sherlock punched in the number. It rang twice, and then was answered. 

"Hello? Sherlock?" John's voice brought back memories, and Sherlock bit his lip. "Sherlock, answer me." 

"Hello John." Natasha readjusted her position, sitting next to Sherlock on the wall as Janice and the others looked on in horror.

"Is everything alright? We're almost done." In the background, orders were shouted, and Mycroft was being annoying. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked back a tear. "John, there's a gun to my head. I'm sitting on a wall, and there's a gun to my head, and the woman holding it says I have to say goodbye. I'm sorry-" his voice caught. "- John, I'm so sorry."

John was silent for a moment, and Sherlock knew that he was looking at the window where Sherlock had been only minutes before, trying to remember his last image of him. It was horrible, utter agony imaging John right now. Sherlock sniffed. "John, are you still there."

"Put her on the phone." John's voice was very stiff, and behind it there was danger, but fear and sadness. Sherlock handed the phone to Natasha. She smiled evilly, and simpered sweetly into the phone, "Hello?"

"Miss Hemmings? My name is John Watson, and I'm the one you'll have to answer to if that man who's head your gun is at dies." Janice closed her eyes, and Sherlock thought she saw a shudder go through her. Martin and Oliver were still in shock, Julia on an armchair, wheezing. Natasha smirked.

"I'm sorry, John, but you're not that intimidating." John gave a laugh on the phone, it was insane and wild. He was slowly breaking down, Sherlock realized, and he was at his breaking point. John's laughter stopped abruptly.

"I'm an army veteran, I've killed people. Trust me, when I find you, you will wish you were never born. And I won't be the only one after you. Sherlock Holmes has saved so many people, affected so many lives, changed so many things in the world, that I will no be the only one who avenges him. You will have to answer to his brother, who is the British government, to Mrs. Hudson, a woman who has survived a life that you wouldn't dare think of. You''ll have to answer to Molly Hooper, Gregory Lestrade, Anderson, the Holmes family, my parents, Angelo, the entire homeless network in Great Britain, my sister, who you don't want to meet. If you kill Sherlock Holmes, the entire British Government will be on your tail. We can have the very Queen herself asking for you dead. Sherlock Holmes has saved so many lives, changed so many people, that if you kill him, I can assure him that you can only get three away before you meet your end. So trust me, shoot, or hurt this man, you won't only have me to answer to but so many more people. Do you really want that, Miss Hemmings?"

Natasha looked shiftily at Sherlock, who gave a small smile. His shoulder was still on fire. John's voice continued. "I'll want to speak to Sherlock now."

"Of-of course, Mr. Watson." She handed the phone back to Sherlock, and stood up, putting her gun on the floor. Sherlock smirked, and took the phone.

"Yes?"

"Sherlock, look across the room." Sherlock gazed over to the elevator, which had just opened. There stood John, in front of two dozen soldiers. He grinned, and snapped the phone shut. Sherlock did the same. Then, about ten things happened at once.

All the soldiers rushed out of the elevator, surrounding the circle of chairs and pointing their guns at Natasha, who looked terrified. 

John and Molly, who had managed to squeeze in with all of them, rushed to Sherlock. Molly injected Sherlock with a  different liquid, this time green, and immediately he felt better. His fever was gone, and the bullet wound felt fine. John grinned, relieved, and pulled Sherlock into a bone-crushing hug, Sherlock's face smushed into John's neck.  Molly smiled happily at Sherlock, and gave her attention to Julia and Oliver, whose asthma seemed to have gotten a bit worse after the soldiers appeared and whose bullet wound needed to be looked at.

Janice tapped John on the shoulder, and when he turned around, hugged him extremely tight. He patted her back awkwardly, and smiled. Janice had tears in her eyes, and when her apparently recognized her, he gaped and briefly hugged her again. Then Sherlock was helped up, and everyone evacuated the building except for Natasha and the soldiers. Her eyes widened, and she shouted to Sherlock.

"The BOMB Sherlock! I may be a dead woman, but the BOMB will go off! Happy days, Mr. Holmes!" Natasha cackled manically, her eyes wild and her hair frazzled. She collapsed onto the floor, where she rolled around. John turned Sherlock's gaze away. Together, everyone got out of Cleavery's and Associates safely. 

 

Lestrade was waiting for Sherlock when they got out. He had tried to go in with John and the policemen, but John got there first. After four hours of waiting on the edge of his seat, waiting, Sherlock Holmes had stumbled out, his arm around John. Cheers rose up from the street sidelines, and ambulances had arrived to check on the Beauregard boy and Mrs. Grint. Janice Rightly's mother and sister were there, their Scottish accents rigging throughout the street. Rose Beauregard had arrived, and Oliver ran straight into her arms, with Martin running with tears in his eyes to his wife. Mrs. Grint's husband and children were all there. It was beautiful. Then Natasha was brought out. 

No one knew who had fired the shot, but Natasha crumpled to the asphalt, blood pooling over her white lab coat. They brought her into the ambulance, and drove away. Meanwhile, Sherlock refused medical attention, and only after his brother stated that Mummy would like Sherlock less then he allowed his arm to be redressed. Promptly after that was finished, he and John scampered off to Baker Street, arm around each other. The Beauregards, the Rightly's and The Grints soon went home as well, and Lestrade was left with the tedious task of finding the bomb Natasha had supposedly hidden inside the building. But the story doesn't end with him.

 

Back at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson was in a fright. She had rushed about, screaming about how Sherlock always managed to get himself shot somehow, and how she wished he could live one day without having to deal with those horrible moments. Eventually, she got everything under control and and went downstairs to make "tea", which was really tea with a strong shot of brandy. Sherlock was in the bedroom, and John sat next to him.

"Mind telling me who Janice was to you?" Sherlock absentmindedly asked. John looked up from his book.

"Hmm?" Sherlock waved his hand.

"Who was Janice to you? You obviously knew her, and she was very important to you."

"Oh, Janice. Janice was a old friend, her dad was in the army with me, and I pretty much watched her grow up. Old friends of the Rightly's, the Watsons are."

"Great." Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned against the headboard. John looked up at him.

"You know, you should really get some rest. You just got shot and were in a hostage situation, for Gods sake. Come on, everything'll be fine."  John put his book down as Sherlock sighed and nestled down in the blankets, turning off the lights. John shut off his, and Sherlock curled up to him. John smiled, and kissed Sherlock's head. 

"Goodnight, Sherlock." Sherlock smiled in his sleep, as the last light in Baker Street was shut off for the night,

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, I know it might be a bit weird, but I'm just making up ideas here. Yes, I know I switched Julie's name from Julia to Julie throughout the story, but they are the same person. I'd love feedback, and if you want to subscribe, that would be amazing. Have a lovely day!


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